Blue Light Special
by Fiddler55
Summary: Summary: Jesse and Amanda’s present for Mark has unexpected repercussions, and Halloween becomes rather more serious than a children’s holiday.
1. Mysterium

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, and Cheryl Banks do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are once again the product of my own undisciplined imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally unintentional.

A virtual season episode written for Halloween. I was just in one of those moods and wanted to see just how dark I could get.

Author's Note: For those DM fans who reside outside the U.S. and may possibly be unfamiliar with a certain chain of discount department stores, a blue light special was an item which was deeply discounted for a short period of time, advertised by a blinking blue light. The expression has found its way over time into the American idiom (or idiotism, depending on the usage!).

"Amanda, are you sure this is the right place?"

Jesse Travis got out of Amanda's car and looked around dubiously. The street was one of several rows of small shops with second-floor apartments in one of the quieter parts of Los Angeles, which some enterprising soul had turned into an artist/craft/antiques cooperative after noticing a natural trend along those lines in the development of the area. Now it flourished, and the purveyors along with it, and it was said that one could find almost anything, no matter how esoteric or unusual, if one looked carefully enough. Jesse blinked at the sign above the door of their target.

"Mysterium." He turned as pathologist Amanda Bentley hit the lock on her keychain and joined him in front of the shop. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Amanda was peering into the front window, where an assortment of old books and metallic objects could be seen faintly in the reflected light from outside. The inner part of the shop was dark, and it was hard to tell if it was even open for business. She tried the doorknob, raising an eyebrow in surprise when it turned. "Come on, Jesse. I've been told they have a selection of antique books on magic here. You know how Mark is about that sort of thing — this has got to be the perfect place to look for a present for him."

She was undoubtedly right; but Jesse shivered anyway as he followed her in, a strange little cold finger of dread trailing down his spine. He pulled himself together, telling himself it was the apparently deliberate murkiness of the interior that was bothering him, and started to look around. Strangely enough, no proprietor came out immediately to greet them, and they wandered around for a short while, occasionally picking up an item to examine it more closely, then laying it back once more. Jesse's nerves began to tauten again; there was nothing here, at least nothing he thought he wanted to take away with him. He said so, shortly.

"Come on, Amanda. Let's go."

She turned and gave him an odd look. "This was your idea, Jesse, you wanted to get him something to do with magic."

"Yeah, but — like maybe one of those kits of new tricks, or something — this place gives me the willies." He started to edge towards the door, hoping she'd take the hint.

"But —" Amanda's mouth turned down. So many old, old books — even if they didn't find something for Mark, the volumes she'd looked at so far were either fascinating, or intricately printed, with illuminated pages, or both. She wanted to see more, wallow in their historic beauty. With a small sigh of disappointment, she started to follow.

"May I help you, sir and madam?"

The voice literally came out of nowhere, making them both jump; Jesse was positive the elderly man had not been in the room at all a second ago, and here he was practically at the young doctor's elbow. He was stooped, with a fringe of white hair and pince-nez glasses, and it was impossible to determine just how old he was. How stereotypical, Jesse thought with a trace of resentment, but then he saw the spark of excitement in Amanda's eyes and knew he was stuck.

"Uh — a good friend of ours is an amateur magician, and collects old magic paraphernalia and literature, and we're looking for —"

The proprietor had already started to move purposefully towards a back corner. "Something of exceptional value, yes? I have just the thing."

Willy-nilly, the two doctors followed the small figure deeper into the gloom, noticing with some discomfort that a small light seemed to grow as they moved, lighting only the area where they were and leaving the rest of the interior as dark as before. They exchanged a perturbed glance, and Jesse murmured, "When we get out of here, you are so going to owe me."

Amanda shook her head to shush him as the old man stopped suddenly at a small table, which hardly looked sturdy enough to support the book that lay upon it.

"Here it is. The memoir and, some say, the grimoire, if you know where to look, of Marcus of Valpines."

"The grimoire?" Amanda repeated involuntarily.

His eyes slid towards her, then away again. "If you know where to look."

Unwillingly, somehow drawn to the volume, Jesse approached it and drew one finger along the etched letters chased in gold leaf on the leather cover. The compulsion spoke again, and he watched in fascination as the same finger gently slipped under the cover and slowly opened the book. "Wow. Amanda, look at this."

Now she was having second thoughts about the wisdom of this exercise. Something about the look in Jesse's eyes — but then he blinked, and it vanished. "What?" he asked, puzzled.

Amanda shook her head. "Nothing — a goose walked over my grave, is all. Never mind." She turned her attention to the proprietor. "How much is it?" she asked, hoping the price would be too outrageous to contemplate.

The shrewd eyes behind the old-fashioned glasses considered the potential buyers, flicked to the book, to Jesse's face, and back to Amanda. "Ordinarily, a volume such as this would be worth over a thousand —"

"Dollars?" squeaked Jesse, mouth suddenly dry.

A nod. "But — I have always believed that books of this kind choose their own paths, and I believe that your friend should be its next owner. I will sell it to you for one hundred."

It was Amanda's turn to play parrot. "One hundred?" Her eyes narrowed. "That's quite a discount."

The proprietor shrugged. "It's my shop. I'm not dependent on it for living expenses, so I choose to try to match items with the proper owners. Call it an old man's whim."

The doctors exchanged another look, and Jesse found himself suddenly reluctant to leave the book on its table. "You know Mark will be so excited, Amanda."

She couldn't help thinking that this was a really stupid idea, but she had no proof, nor even a particularly effective theory. And Jesse was right; Mark would indeed be delighted by the gift. Her small, recalcitrant voice of reason considered, and added that perhaps the book would find an excuse to move on quickly to a new owner, and she capitulated. "All right, Jesse. Half and half, as we agreed."

But the look in his eyes was back as he almost jealously watched the old man prepare the book, wrapping it lovingly and painstakingly, and Amanda's neck prickled. She determined to keep a weather eye on both of her friends very carefully until she could be sure that there was no need for concern.


	2. Calling

Face flushed with pleasure, Mark picked up the mysterious package. "Jesse, it's not my birthday, you know."

Jesse grinned. "I know. It was supposed to be a birthday present, but it wouldn't let me wait."

"Wouldn't let you wait?" Amanda's head turned sharply. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "I — well, it just kept kind of calling — you know —" His face fell under her penetrating stare, and Steve chuckled at his friend's discomfiture.

"Jess, you're worse than Dad."

Jesse squirmed. "It's just that — it's so cool, I didn't want Mark to have to wait to see it. And with Halloween just around the corner —" His eyes went round as he realized what he had said, and Steve groaned.

"Don't tell me. More magic. He's going to be pulling stuff out of our ears for the next month."

"Stop picking on him, Steve," Mark said equably, in much the same tone he had addressed sibling squabbles over the years, except the pronoun had been feminine. "I'm flattered, Jesse. And I'm sure this is going to be wonderful."

"We'll never know unless you finish opening it, Dad," Steve said dryly, ducking the wad of wrapping paper his father tossed at him. They crowded in as Mark completed his task, and Steve sucked in a breath at the obviously priceless cover. "Jess —"

Jesse twitched. "Amanda and I went in on it together," he said defensively. "And before you start yelling, the guy should have charged much more for it, but he said he wanted us to buy it. So there."

Steve laughed, holding up his hands in self-defense. "Easy, Jess. You have to admit that's a pretty fancy cover."

"Shut up, son," his father said absently, one finger tracing the design much the same way Jesse had in the strange little shop. "I'm concentrating." Cautiously, he eased the book open and exclaimed in wonder. "It's beautiful!"

"The Memoir of Marcus of Valpines, anno domini 1471," Steve read aloud. "Who's he?"

Mark shrugged. "I've never heard of him, but those were tumultuous times. The Middle Ages were ending, the Renaissance was underway, and knowledge was sought almost at all costs by some. Alchemists and scholars sought the Philosopher's Stone, and more. Marcus was undoubtedly one of those men."

"Interesting coincidence," his son remarked, sounding slightly disturbed.

His father ignored the undertones. "Yes, isn't it? What a find, Jess, Amanda. Thank you both, very much." He started to page gently through the book, stopping periodically to admire an illumination or try to decipher a bit of text. As he became more engrossed, muttering to himself, the other three grinned at each other and started to head for the door, only to come to an sudden halt at Mark's exclamation.

"What —!"

They turned and froze. Steve rubbed his eyes and looked again, to see the same eldritch blue light he had seen a moment earlier, emerging from the open page and extending towards his father's startled face. "What the hell —" he growled, leaping towards the seated man, only to have something punch hard into his chest and fling him back to slam against the wall. Winded and gasping, he watched in disbelief as the light enveloped Mark, his body stiffening momentarily. Then a blue — appendage was the only word for it — reached out and caressed an astonished Jesse's face before it retracted abruptly. Into Mark's body.

Steve hauled himself out of his temporarily paralysis and lurched forward again. "Dad! What happened? What was that thing?"

Mark gave him a puzzled look. "What thing? And what happened to you, Steve? Your head's bleeding." He started to rise, but his son pushed him back into the chair.

"No, Dad. Stay put. You're not going anywhere until Jesse —" He glanced at his best friend, who looked dazed himself, and remembered the blue light. "Uh, until Amanda can take a look at you and make sure you're all right."

Mark shook his head. "I'm fine, son. Why wouldn't I be?" He listened in bemusement as Steve and Amanda, somewhat incoherently, brought him up to speed. "I didn't see anything, and I'm fine." He glanced at Jesse, who was decidedly pale. "Make sure Jesse's okay, though, will you? He looks like he saw a ghost. And do something about that cut on your head." Clearly dismissing them, he returned his attention to the book.

Amanda gave Steve an expressive look as he made to remonstrate with his father. "Come on, Steve. Help me get Jesse to the ER, and we'll get your head seen to as well." Her expression was eloquent, and Steve bowed to it, as they clearly weren't going to get any answers from Mark. They towed the stunned Jesse off, arguing with each other in hushed tones about what to do.


	3. Possession

Mark's distraction grew as the hours and days marched on. The book fascinated him, and Jesse also; it seemed to an irritated Amanda that the only place she could find either of them, usually together, was in Mark's office, poring over the volume. Or, increasingly, with Mark reading the words aloud with growing fluency while Jesse sat almost at his feet, much like a beloved student. Which, she admitted to herself grudgingly, he was, but he was on the verge of starting to neglect his rounds. Something had to be done.

She was storming purposefully towards the inner chamber when, intent on her planned tirade, she literally ran into Steve, who apparently had the same goal. "Oof," he remarked, grabbing her as she caromed off of him and steadying her on her feet. "What's up, Amanda?"

A toss of her head. "Your father and Jesse," Amanda replied ominously.

"Ah. I understand. Completely." Steve fell into step beside her and gave her a quizzical look. "Let me guess. Jesse's been missing rounds?"

Amanda sighed. "Not quite, but he's getting close." She grinned at him suddenly. "Been working Bob's on your lonesome, Steve?"

He nodded grimly. "Pretty near. Gonna have a talk with the bright little lad."

"That makes two of us. I've got first dibs."

They argued playfully over which one was going to verbally ring Jesse's chimes first as they approached Mark's office. Steve reached for the door and stopped, his hand uncertain above the knob.

"What's the matter?" Amanda asked.

Steve looked worried. "This is going to sound weird, but something feels — wrong." He reached again for the doorknob, then paused and gave her a little half-smile. "Somehow — I think this would be a good idea," he remarked, knocking.

Mark's voice bade them enter, sounding strange through the closed door which ordinarily almost always stood open. Feeling like chastised children, they tiptoed into the office, and froze in astonishment. Mark was sitting at his desk, calmly pointing at one of the shelves as a book emerged from its nest and soared toward his waiting hand. Jesse exclaimed with pleasure. "All right, Mark! This is too cool!"

"What the hell was that?" Steve's voice cracked on the last word, and he coughed, trying to shock his lungs into working properly.

Mark gestured, and the door closed. By itself. Amanda skittered away from it like a startled cat, her expression as shaken as Steve's. The newcomers sidled closer to each other and advanced tentatively. Seeing their disquiet, Mark chuckled. "Hey, you two," he said reassuringly. "What's up?"

Amanda cleared her throat, trying to regain the annoyed mood she had been suffering minutes before in order to be suitably forceful. "Actually, I was looking for Jesse." Her severe gaze fell upon the young doctor, who was still grinning in appreciation of his mentor's feats. "You're late for rounds."

"And you'd better have your butt at Bob's tonight after goofing off the last two nights in a row," Steve contributed.

Jesse looked hurt. "I've been working," he said innocently. "Ask Mark."

Two puzzled faces turned unwillingly towards the man behind the desk, familiar and yet a stranger. "Dad?" Steve croaked.

Mark nodded and rose, gesturing to Marcus of Valpines' book where it lay on the desk. "It's a grimoire," he stated, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

"A what?" Steve was no more enlightened than he had been a moment earlier. His father gave him one of those pitying looks usually reserved for idiots, and his face went hot. "Dad, what the hell are you talking about?"

Mark sighed. "A grimoire," he repeated patiently. "It's not just Marcus' memoirs — it's his book of lore. Everything he learned. His magic. His spells."

Oh, crap. This was not good. His father was obviously in need of a nice, long vacation. He started to say so, and was interrupted by Amanda's gasp. "What?" he asked aggrievedly, having just begun to build up a nice head of steam.

She was shaking. "The man in the shop. He said if you know where to look. He said, 'the memoir and, some say, the grimoire, if you know where to look, of Marcus of Valpines.' And he had the strangest look on his face when he said it." Hers was horrified. "He knew, Steve! He knew what would happen when the book found the right owner!"

This was getting weirder by the minute. His father doing, what was it called, teleporting, that was it, teleporting things, Jesse looking like he was testing out various mind-altering chemicals, and Amanda in the initial throes of a nervous breakdown. He grabbed her by the shoulders to hold her still. "What do you mean, 'the book found the right owner?' Since when do books choose —"

"This one did," his father interrupted impatiently. "It was bound with spells which charged it to seek out one who would use it. Now, if there isn't anything else you want, would the two of you please leave? We're busy." He sat back down and started to concentrate on the book, clearly dismissing them.

Steve swung around, stunned. His father's voice sounded — different. And Mark would never have ordered them out so summarily. He stared at the man behind the desk, and his eyes narrowed. Something in the line of the mouth wasn't right. Something was definitely wrong, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. "Dad, just what is going on here? Since when do you approve Jesse not doing his job?"

"I am." "He is." They spoke almost simultaneously, and Steve's temper rose.

"No way. You're my partner, Jess. That means you and I both do the work, not just one of us. And if that's not bad enough, you're neglecting your patients, for Pete's sake! What the hell's the matter with you?"

There was a roar from behind the desk. "Enough!" Mark looked up, away from the book, his eyes blazing. Blazing, his now totally freaked out son saw, not blue, but dark grey, almost black. He thought frantically back to the last time he had been the recipient of his father's temper, and remembered that Mark's eyes turned icy pale when he was angry. Not dark. As he absorbed this, his mind starting to panic, things got worse; his father lifted a hand, and Steve found himself making sudden and painful contact with the floor. He looked up cautiously and saw no change in his father's eyes; prudently, he decided to remain where he was, feeling surreptitiously for broken bones, mind reeling.

Amanda was not as reticent. "What are you doing, Mark?" she practically screamed, dropping onto her knees to examine the fallen man. Steve waved her away with a gasped, "I'm all right," and she returned to the attack. "That was your son, or didn't you notice?"

The alien eyes considered her, and Amanda's heart lurched. This wasn't her beloved mentor and friend. This was a stranger, and a dangerous one. She licked dry lips and took a deep breath. "Where's Mark?" she asked, trying to calm her tone.

Jesse, disconcertingly, giggled. Amanda had never heard him giggle before, and hated the sound on the spot. "He's in there, Mandy." He had also never called her Mandy, something else she hated. "Both of them are. Marcus is teaching us all sorts of neat stuff."

Steve had struggled to his knees, trying to get up; his head came up sharply at Jesse's response. "Marcus?"

The man who wore his father's face sighed. "Small minds. Such a nuisance. But necessary for now. Listen to me, and listen well, for I shall not repeat myself."

They goggled at him, lost. Mark, or Marcus, continued. "I am Marcus of Valpines, magus and mage, scholar and wizard, respected by the courts of the land. Before I passed, I charged my book with the task of guarding my essence until another could be found to hold it. It knew it had done so when he who was my apprentice before came into the shop."

This was so not getting clearer, Steve thought with resentment. He sat down with a thump, figuring he was safer that way. "Let me see if I've got this right. Some guy who's been dead for over six hundred years was living in that book, and now he's possessing my father because, oh, yeah, my best friend, who despite an annoying predilection for science fiction is so not into this magic Nostradamus mumbo jumbo, is really some other guy who kicked it over six hundred years ago, and he found this book, oops, no, sorry, the book called his name or something ridiculous like that, and I'm supposed to believe this garbage?"

The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow at Steve's tone, and a hand to go with it. In spite of his best intentions, Steve flinched, waiting to take flight again. His father smiled, not particularly nicely, and said, quite simply, "Yes."

Amanda caught Steve's arm as he twitched, preparatory to rising. "Wait, Steve. Say for the sake of argument he's telling the truth. What's he doing here? You can't tell me some old —"

"Magus," Jesse supplied helpfully, with another nasty little giggle.

Amanda gave him a poisonous look. "Whatever. What do you want with Dr. Sloan?"

He looked pleased. "Now you're thinking instead of blindly refusing to believe the evidence of your own eyes." Steve snorted, and winced as yet another book flew from its shelf and thumped him in the ribs. Rubbing his side ostentatiously, he settled for glaring in silence. Mark continued. "Now that we have returned, I intend to make use of these bodies and their knowledge to increase my own. Power will follow."

Amanda looked dubious, but decided not to challenge that vainglorious statement for the moment. "Just what were you doing sealed up in your grimoire, anyway? Didn't they bury you properly?"

Mark's usual guffaw had a sharp edge to it, adding to the grating on Amanda's nerves caused by Jesse's giggle. She eyed the younger doctor appraisingly, debating whether she could smack him silly before meeting with any reprisals from Mark, who saved her the trouble of making a decision. "No."

"Why not?" Genuinely curious now, Amanda went on. "Wasn't that the usual custom in your time?"

He seemed gratified by the attention. "I was hanged, then drawn and quartered, and my body tossed to the four winds."

"There's a shock," Steve muttered, yelping as one of the paperweights made contact. Amanda poked him. "Stop it. We need to find out what's going on, and the only way is to keep him talking." She turned back to Mark. "Why?"

"He killed me," Jesse replied, with yet another inane giggle. This time she did slap him. "Stop that, Jesse! That's worse than your lousy Renfield imitation!"

He glared at her. "All right, have it your way — Mandy," he sneered deliberately, with what Amanda considered excessively hateful and totally unnecessary emphasis on the despised nickname, judging by the angry flash in her eyes. Even in his somewhat altered state, Jesse could conclude he was in for an even harder slap if he didn't get on with it. "Marcus was dying. I was his apprentice. It was my duty to, to be a, a vessel, for him. So he performed the ritual. But he was interrupted before he could complete it, so instead of being transferred into my body, to meld us, he couldn't revive me. And I died."

"And the ignorant fools who arrested me," Mark's voice, now sounding deeper and slightly slurred with the medieval elongation of vowels, took up the tale, ignoring his audience's horror. "They tried me for witchcraft and murder, and executed me. Me! One of the most learned scholars of my time!" His gaze fell on Steve and Amanda where they huddled on the floor. "But those who do not share the mysteries are ever ignorant and suspicious, and shall ever remain outside enlightenment."

He rose, his hands playing with an object that had been next to the book. It was silver, and looked like a long, thin knife, almost as thin as a stiletto, and most likely as dangerous. Steve swore under his breath, and moved to put Amanda behind him. "Amanda, when I move, I want you to run and get help," he hissed under his breath, and shook his head when she started to object. "If I don't do something now, somebody's going to get hurt."

He cleared his throat, trying to hide the nervousness, unpleasantly aware that he couldn't see Jesse out of the corner of either eye. "What's that, Dad?"

His father — not his father — contemplated the knife, then the dark eyes met perturbed blue ones. "It's an athame," he replied, almost pensively. "It's the primary instrument of my craft." He glanced down, and flipped through the pages of the grimoire. "Jesse, please make sure Amanda remains."

This was bad, and becoming worse. Steve spun on his heel and moved to block Jesse's path, but his friend, his best friend, shorter and lighter, not to mention generally more agreeable, stiff-armed him and sent him reeling to fetch up against the desk, wincing at the impact. Jesse took Amanda almost gently by the arm and sat her down, still gently, but firmly, in one of the other chairs, settling his body against it in such a way as to make it clear that he intended to keep her there. Steve was rapidly running out of ideas to keep the situation from escalating.

"You — Dad, Amanda's one of your best friends —"

The eyes were cold and foreign. Even his father's mustache looked like it belonged to a stranger. "Before the ritual can be commenced, the blood of another must be shed."

Steve's temper briefly got the better of him. "So find a goat."

The force knocked him across the room and into his now least favorite wall. Limping, gasping for breath, his vision blurring, Steve lost his temper with finality. "I don't know who you are, because I sure as hell don't believe your ridiculous story, but you get the hell out of my father and leave. Now. Before I do something I may or may not regret."

Marcus of Valpines stared at the powerful shoulders that had arrived in his immediate line of sight amazingly quickly after their owner had been thrown across the room, and sneered. "Much as I would prefer to chastise you for your impertinence, your blood is not what I seek to christen my athame. The woman is my choice. Now stand aside."

His fear being made reality made it no more palatable. "No." And Steve dove into his father's path as the other man lunged at Amanda, silver flashing past his eyes as Mark grabbed for control of his own body and diverted the blade before his son was blinded. Then the doctor was lost in his own mind again as Marcus reasserted himself, snarling.

"Very well, youngling. A willing sacrifice will serve if needs must." And Steve flinched back as Amanda screamed, the athame just missing his chest, scoring a searing burn up his right arm as he flung it out to parry, until it came to rest deep in his shoulder. Steve cried out, and the madman fighting him laughed, and pulled it out, slamming it back in as the younger man groaned with pain. Strange symbols sprang to life on the hilt and blade, and there was a hissing sound as the superheated metal burned the hand holding it. With a garbled oath, the magus dropped the knife, shaking as he fought Mark for control of his body.

With his last bit of strength, as the door finally burst open and shocked staffers poured in, Steve backhanded his father, stunning him. "Hold him," he ordered hoarsely. "Sedate him, get him in a jacket, get him out of here and somewhere safe." He watched grimly as his orders were carried out, his mind and body screaming in protest, and turned, looking for Amanda. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, not sure if her voice was working.

"Where's Jesse?"

She shook her head, and he slumped. Pain was starting to make its presence known with the fading of the adrenaline rush. "We've got to find him."

Amanda found her voice. "Right now, you need medical attention." Steve started to object; then, realizing there was no practical immediate alternative, he nodded distractedly, and let her lead him to the emergency room, trying to dull the growing turmoil in his head.


	4. Revelation

Steve hunched miserably over the front of the chair he had turned around so he could watch his father through the observation window. The man inside the small, padded room sat quietly, and probably much more comfortably, gazing around in apparent disinterest at his minimal surroundings. Then Mark turned his head, staring right at the unhappy man outside, and Steve's blood ran cold. The blue had totally disappeared from his father's eyes, now almost black with occult knowledge and — hate. No, more than hate: disdain, pride and power shared the dark depths of Mark's stare. There was nothing of his father in it. I know you, the eyes said; you are nothing, and you will not interfere.

"Don't count on it, buddy," Steve growled, not realizing at first that he had spoken and starting at the sound of his own voice. After the first surprise, though, he took comfort from it. No matter what the stranger in Mark's body thought, that was his father in there, and Steve wasn't letting him go without one hell of a fight. "You can't have him. And if you think you can escape — the only place you're going is back to whatever part of hell you came from."

The cool glance darkened even more, and Steve winced as Mark spoke, the small speaker grille in the room transmitting his voice. Except it wasn't quite Mark's voice. The quiet tones Steve had heard his entire life, sharing, lecturing, scolding, teaching, laughing, comforting — now held a weird harmonic, and the vowels were even more elongated than before, rounded, foreign-sounding. He winced again as the man's lips curved in a smile at seeing his discomfort.

"You cannot stop me. You will not harm your father."

Steve's tongue crept out to moisten dry lips. "You're not my father."

The malicious smile again, sitting strangely on Mark's face under the white mustache. "Yes, I am, son."

Steve flinched as the voice that emerged lacked the magus' tones, even though the eyes didn't change. "Don't do that!" he gritted, clinging to his temper with all twenty fingers and toes. The man in the room smiled again, the eyes suddenly their normal faded blue, and Steve's resolve wavered. "Dad?" he whispered, his own voice cracking.

"Steve, you have to help me." There was no trace whatsoever now of the dead magus in the troubled baritone. "I can't keep him stuffed away long enough to get rid of him by myself." Mark's face suddenly registered horror. "Son — I — are you all right?"

A knife wrenched through Steve's heart, less physically harmful than the one that his father had shoved repeatedly into his arm and shoulder, but no less wounding. He took a deep breath, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes and his voice. "Dad — I'm all right. You — he — he didn't get a chance to do much damage."

"Oh, God." Mark turned away, bowing his head. "Son — I am so sorry. You know I would never —"

His throat was closing up fast, but his father couldn't see him nod. "I know, Dad," he managed somehow, wishing Mark would turn back again. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to manage the words, and he desperately needed the mutual reassurance.

Then Mark returned to the window, and Steve found himself wishing he had never thought of it. There was no sign of the man who was his father, and the dark eyes and thinned mouth of Marcus of Valpines sneered through the window at him once more. "Do as your father asks, and I will destroy him forever. Grant me my desire, and I will free him, and leave you unharmed."

Battling the incipient nausea, Steve stared at the stranger who was his father. Wait a minute — this was the first time the ghastly thing possessing him had indicated any willingness to bargain. And apparently keeping Mark captive wasn't necessarily a requirement? Cautiously, gagging at the need to continue the bizarre conversation, he ventured, "What desire? I thought you —"

"Wished to remain in this body?" The laugh was soundless, and no less horrific for its lack of vocalization. Steve's skin crawled, but he steeled himself.

"That was the general impression you gave," he observed.

The magus shook his head. "My apologies," he said sarcastically. "No. While your sire is a man of admirable abilities and mental acuity, I do not wish to begin my new life in one of his years."

Every time Steve thought there might be an end to this nightmare, it got worse. "And?" he asked, hoping his sudden hunch was flat-out wrong.

It wasn't. "My apprentice shall serve, as he should have done before."

Steve went ashen. A choice of Solomonic proportions, and both options totally unacceptable. Save his father, and Jesse would be sacrificed, and probably in a particularly nasty fashion. Spare Jesse from a fate worse than death, and his father would be doomed to lose his existence, maybe slowly, maybe not, to this 15th century madman. "I — I can't make that decision," he stammered.

A shrug, and the strange cold voice spoke. "Then your father as you know him will die."

"No — I mean," Steve said hastily, "I — I need to talk to my father — without your interference. I can't make this decision without knowing his wishes."

The stranger in his father's body smiled again, and Steve felt a cold hand clenching his heart. "You know full well what your father would want. However. It will make no difference to me in the end, so have your wish. I will require time to prepare myself for either. You have one hour."

The alien eyes closed briefly, and then their gaze belonged only to the man who had given him life and loved him without reservation ever since. "Son."

Steve's throat seemed totally disinclined to cooperate, and it took several tries before he could force the words out. "Dad — I can't do this."

Mark looked at him intently, trying to will the serenity his son needed towards him. "Steve. I've been giving this situation quite a bit of thought. There is a way."

Steve's temper stirred ungraciously. How could his father be so calm about the prospect of either losing his soul to the creature using his body or watching Jesse's being ripped from the young doctor? He said so, with some heat, and his father shook his head.

"Son — there is a third alternative. You're not going to like it, but I've considered it from all angles, and, if we follow the plan precisely, Jesse lives, I live, although a little worse for wear temporarily, and this monster goes back to the second ring of hell or wherever it was he was burning for eternity."

Hope started to shoot out little electrical signals, then was derailed. "What do you mean, a little worse for wear?"

"Temporarily."

Steve's eyebrows, the most reliable indicator of his mood, slammed down. "Dad, can we try to avoid dancing around in semantics? Tell me exactly what you have in mind."

Mark came closer to the glass. "It's fairly simple, actually. We agree to let me — er, Marcus — take Jesse, on the condition that you help me."

"What?" Steve breathed, horrified. "Are you insane too?"

"No. Listen to me, son. We get one chance, and one chance only." The blue gaze was compelling. "There's an incantation, and then Marcus will stab Jesse in the chest. I've already convinced him that the only way Jesse's body will survive is if Amanda is ready with a small emergency team to revive him, so that gives us one minute, maybe two, while Marcus finishes his spell."

Mouth dry, Steve whispered, "To do what, Dad?" He didn't think he was going to like the answer.

"Son. I want you to promise me right now that you'll do what I'm going to ask of you."

So far, he definitely wasn't liking what he was hearing. "Or what, Dad? And what the hell choice do I have?"

His father's gaze was sympathetic. "You don't, really, unless you leave him inside of me." Mark raged inside, wishing he could go to the distressed man watching him, smooth the misery from his face.

Steve got a grip on himself. "All right, Dad. Tell me what I have to do; I know I'm not going to want to hear it, but tell me anyway."

"Your promise, son."

All right, already! Feeling like he was being torn into tiny little bits, Steve nodded. "I promise, Dad."

"I'll be holding the athame in my right hand, and you'll be standing on that side. When I bring my hand up again after stabbing Jesse, you grab it, take the athame away from me, and stab me in as close to the same place as possible." He paused, anticipating another shocked interruption, but Steve merely sat there, mouth open, eyes hot with denial, unable to speak. "Amanda says Dr. Porter has already agreed to help and keep this quiet. He'll take care of reviving me once Marcus is gone."

His lips seemed to be permanently dry; Steve licked them again, trying to convince himself it was helping, while he tried to figure out which part of his father's plan to question first. Finally, he jerked out, "You already ran this by Amanda? How?"

His father's eyes were sad. "We talked last night, while you were in surgery. She was able to sedate me — us — enough to get Marcus to go under first, and I figured I'd better make the most of the opportunity. She said Bruce had already noticed something was wrong, and had promised to help her if necessary. If the timing is accurate, Jesse and I both have a fairly good chance of survival."

Another ineffective swipe of tongue across his mouth. "And just how does killing both you and Jesse get rid of Marcus? Won't he just go looking for someone else?" Please, not Amanda or Porter — or me, a tiny voice in the back of his head added unhappily.

"No. He can't. The spell requires him to go into the body that he himself has struck. This is important, son. You've got to get that thing away from me before you use it. If I'm still touching it, at all, Marcus will be able to return to my body. And the deadly blow, if struck with love rather than pride, will send him back where he belongs." Mark leaned forward. "It's the only way, Steve. I'm sorry, but it has to be you."

He was back in all of the terrible places he had been in his life when pain or despair lurked just around the corner; the Vietnamese jungle; the dark building where his partner lurked, ready to betray him with bullets; other places he couldn't, wouldn't revisit. His throat ached with the effort of suppressing the dry heaves his stomach threatened, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. "Dad —" he whispered. "You're asking me to kill you."

Mark nodded. "Yes, Steven."

Oh, God. He could count the number of times his father had used his full name (other than when Steve had justifiably incurred his parental wrath) on the fingers of one hand. Once had been when his mother died; once on his more or less intact return from Vietnam; once after eventually surviving a hail of bullets and then almost killing himself to free his father from an even worse fate. Mark was serious, as serious as he would ever be, and Steve was powerless to deny him his request. He bowed his head, trying to hide the tears, now starting to slide south, from his father. After three or four tries, he managed to give the words birth.

"As you wish, Dad."


	5. Desperate Measures

Halloween night

Steve glanced around the small operating room uneasily, wishing that he was trapped in a waking dream which would disappear if he pinched himself hard. Which he did, still trying to persuade himself that it would work, despite the grim realization that this was no dream. His father (or Marcus, Steve couldn't determine which at the moment) sat quietly at one end of the room, still in the straitjacket, one ankle cuffed to the chair leg, waiting for the preparations to be completed. Although the magus had informed them that he would remain in his seat without the need for such restraints until it was time, Steve was not convinced, and had insisted. Marcus had given him a look, and Steve's temper had boiled over.

"I gave my father my word, damn you, and I'll keep it! In the meantime, you're doing this my way!"

The strange eyes contemplated him a moment longer, then deliberately ignored him afterwards. Steve finished securing his prisoner and moved away from him, hand in close proximity to his gun anyway. At least there was nothing wrong with that arm. He flexed his right arm, as much as possible since he had decided to forego the sling, and winced as the wounds pulled. No guarantee it would last in a lengthy knock-down, drag-out, but he suspected that any tussle with the magus would result in a fairly rapid end. Whose it would be, he really didn't want to speculate. He looked up at as Amanda cleared her throat.

"Bruce?" she asked softly, and the other doctor nodded. "Ready when you are, Amanda."

Four pairs of eyes turned towards the table where Jesse lay quietly. Anyone not looking at his face might have thought he was sedated, his body was so still; but then he turned his head towards Mark, and the light in his eyes chilled the other three observers. The strange mood which had possessed him ever since the fateful spell had been deciphered had increased in intensity. Now his eyes shone crazily, and he smiled as the magus gazed on him with almost a paternal air. "Soon?" Jesse asked, sounding like someone on a cocaine high.

Mark nodded. "Yes, my boy. The time approaches, and your service will be rewarded."

Jesse smiled again, and Steve's breath rasped in sharply as he realized that his best friend was totally unrecognizable. The clear eyes, the blunt honesty, no matter how painful, the warm smile — all gone, sacrificed to the madness which was the magus' legacy to his original apprentice, now Jesse in his stead. His stomach lurched, and Steve had to take several deep breaths in order to concentrate on the scene before him.

His watch beeped. Five of twelve. Almost the witching hour. Halloween in modern-day America — in Marcus of Valpines' time, the night the dead walked the earth. Hating himself, he approached the sitting man and released him from the straitjacket, then bent to unlock the ankle cuff. He staggered from shock when a hand placed itself lightly on his head, and barely managed to look up, afraid of what he would see, what Marcus would do.

But it was his father's eyes that so briefly smiled at him, and the hand caressed his hair lightly. "You'll be all right, son," his father said, nanoseconds before the voice and face changed for the worse. Unhappily, Steve clutched those moments to him, knowing the likelihood of experiencing them again was dangerously slight. He forced himself to rise and move back, saying gruffly, "Get up. Let's get this over with."

The dark eyes glanced at him slyly, and for a horrible moment he was afraid Marcus knew exactly what they planned to do. Then it passed, and he was nodding reluctantly as the magus asked if he was ready.

"Good. My athame, servant."

Steve forced the involuntary anger downwards. In a few minutes, he could be as angry as he wished. Now, for his father's and Jesse's sakes, he had to do as he was told without argument. He picked up the instrument, hilt first, the wounds in his right arm aching at his fingers' contact with the cause of them, and presented it to Marcus, trying to pay attention without shrinking back instinctively as the older man's voice began to speak in a language which sounded older than time and uglier than sin. If he'd ever doubted the existence of black magic, of fundamental evil, he believed now. Amanda stood poised, equipment at the ready, trying as unsuccessfully to shut out the vileness being spoken. Their eyes met over Jesse's body, trying not to see the irrational joy in his face, and communicated wordlessly, and Steve felt a small sliver of hope. In spite of her distaste for what she was witnessing, Amanda held firm, faith intact that they could and would save their loved ones, and he grabbed at that conviction with all the strength he could muster, helping it bolster his faltering heart.

His watch beeped again. As midnight struck, the chanting voice rose in deadly synchronization with the fatal arm, and delivered one word of such foulness that even Jesse winced as the wicked blade flashed downward. The young doctor had time only to start to speak before his voice changed to a ghastly bubbling, the red already spreading over his chest.

Steve stared at the silver flashing upwards once more, stranded in horrified fascination, unable to move. His father made a gargantuan effort, and forced himself to turn his head in a final appeal. "Son!" he choked, before the magus wrenched back control. Steve's body jerked, and, almost reflexively, he lunged for the deadly hand and its cargo. Realizing what was happening, the magus pulled away with almost supernatural strength, trying to force the blade either down or in towards his own chest with both hands.

"Oathbreaker, you will pay, you will all pay, for your temerity!" the magus snarled. "First I will take my new body; and then I will kill the other!"

Steve groaned with the effort of keeping the blade away from any potential targets. While ordinarily he could have defeated Mark, even with one wounded arm, the magus was possessed, by what power Steve didn't care to know, and it was quickly becoming clear that Steve wasn't going to be able to maintain his hold on his father's wrists for much longer, much less control the path of the athame. Gasping, he made a superhuman effort, and threw himself upward, right arm reaching up and over. Fire burned along the wounded arm as he grabbed at the athame, and he cried out as his hand settled on it the hard way, the blade slicing his right palm open viciously. Hoping against all hope that he hadn't jinxed the procedure by slopping his blood all over the weapon first, he seized advantage of the magus' shock and yanked it away, only to reverse the blade and drive it, swearing and sobbing with pain, effort and misery, into his father's chest.

Mark's body stiffened dreadfully as time stopped. Porter rushed over, ready to resuscitate, but Steve's hoarse voice stopped him. "No. Not yet."

Porter halted obediently, and they watched, frozen, as the same eerie blue light appeared, the one that Steve had first seen a week ago — only a week? It seemed like years — this time in reverse, removing itself from Mark's still body. It hovered, seeming almost to look around, as if for another victim, one tendril reaching towards Steve as it sensed more spilled blood. He flinched back, not totally convinced that the magus needed an almost dead body rather than a more or less live one as long as it had blood available, the words of the spell still burning in the air. It came closer, and a sob escaped his throat. "No —" he choked involuntarily, afraid the night's foul work had been for nothing.

"You shall not have them. Leave this place." Amanda's voice was hard and cold, and the light flickered uncertainly before continuing its advance on Steve where he stood paralyzed, his own blood and his father's dripping from his fingers. "You shall not have them," she repeated, and shouted something that sounded like Latin. The power of her words literally burned through the air, penetrating the evil light, sending it scattering outwards, past the corners of the room, out into the night.

"Back to hell," Amanda said tiredly, and moved to check Jesse while Porter leaped to revive Mark. Feeling useless, old and very tired, Steve stayed by his father's side until he saw the damaged chest rise, fall and rise again. Then he turned blindly away, holding his hurt arm close to his body, embracing the pain almost as a distraction from the relentless circling of his thoughts. He blundered off in the general direction of the door, but missed it, stumbling into the wall, and slowly slid down it to subside on the floor. Reaction hit him then, and the enormity of what had happened and what he had done, despite the eventual result, overwhelmed him; ignoring the blood, he wrapped both arms around himself and shook, fighting tears of revulsion, shock and pain.

An eternity passed while he contemplated what could have happened, loathing himself. Then he felt a gentle hand on his good arm. "Steve. Please don't do this to yourself. Mark and Jesse are both going to be okay. Let me take care of your arm, all right?" Her voice was quiet, soothing, and the cowardly part of him wished he could believe it would fix everything. But the other part knew better.

"Not all right," he mumbled, starting to feel a little dizzy from loss of blood. He looked up at her with drowning eyes. "I just tried to murder my father." Her lips parted to contradict him, but he shook his head again. "No, 'Manda. Just because you could revive him — for all intents and purposes, I killed him. I stabbed him with intent to kill, I had to, he, he wouldn't let me say no, I had to do it —"

Either the blood loss or the shock, possibly pain as well, was responsible, but Steve was rapidly losing control, and coherence had clearly already gone by the wayside. Amanda caught Porter's eye and jerked her head toward the table where she had prepared a few extra sedatives in anticipation of trouble. Within seconds, the injection took effect, and Steve's incoherent rambling dwindled to a faint mutter. The two doctors coaxed him upright and guided him over to a gurney, stripping the ruined shirt off on the way, and went to work while the monitors keeping watch over Mark and Jesse beeped reassuringly.


	6. Resolution

The crew that assembled in Mark's hospital room a day later looked like they had been through a major war. The only ones not flaunting bandages were Amanda and Cheryl, and the former's face bore the signs of the strain of the past week clearly. Cheryl glanced at the walking (or, in Mark's case, lying) wounded incredulously. "You know, Halloween was yesterday. Aren't you a little late?"

Mark laughed. "You know me, I always like to try to squeeze in just a little more fun."

"Fun?" Jesse inquired sourly. "You and I both were possessed by six hundred year old loony tunes, and you call that fun?"

Mark sobered. "Okay, so it got nasty towards the end. You can't deny it was interesting, though. I mean, how many people get to share a body with someone in tune with the power of the ancients?"

"Evil power," Amanda contributed. She shook her head. "You know, I knew, I just knew there was something wrong with that book when we found it, but it was so —"

Jesse nodded. "It was — compelling. Once I touched it, I had to buy it."

Mark's eyes went distant for a moment. "He'd been searching for you for centuries, Jess. Or at least someone he thought was you." The mustache quirked in the familiar manner, and he was Mark again. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"I don't want to wonder," Cheryl said briskly, straightening from where she was leaning against one wall. "And unfortunately, since my partner is officially on medical leave, I'm faced with catching up on paperwork."

Four pairs of eyes slid over to where Steve sat, hunched in the wheelchair Amanda had insisted on him using, nursing his wounds and thinking dark thoughts. He was still shell-shocked, as she had discovered earlier when she unthinkingly woke him too quickly; both hands had flown out and grabbed her bruisingly by the shoulders, and it wasn't until she repeated his name the third time, somewhat hysterically, that he seemed to come to himself and released them abruptly, apologizing brusquely. She had tried, without success, to talk to him, but his mood was still morose, his disinterest in his surroundings far too great for her peace of mind. Now she threw an anguished glance at Mark, hoping he would take the hint.

Mark hadn't spent a lot of time observing his son recovering from various injuries for nothing. He gave Amanda a quick nod, and she turned to her other charge. "Come on, Jesse, time for your meds." Cheryl took her leave also, patting her partner on the arm, telling him she would return later, her voice full of concern.

Steve glanced up dully as the room emptied until only he and his father remained. Disinterested he might be, but he wasn't stupid. "Okay, Dad. Let's have it."

"Son. I'm not going to belabor this. It's very simple. I asked you to give me your word. You did. And you kept it. And we're all still alive."

Steve's head was bent. "And what if it had gone wrong?"

"It didn't." Mark's voice was gentle but firm. "That's all that matters."

"No. What matters is that you forced me to make a choice where I had none. Either way, if Amanda and Porter hadn't revived you, I would have —" Steve's left hand, until now unusually still, clenched and unclenched while the older man waited quietly. Finally, Steve dragged in a breath that was almost a sob. "I couldn't have lived with that, Dad. No matter how much I wanted to believe you, that he — it — was real, that I was saving you. I shoved that — thing — into your heart."

He had to do something about this, and fast. With some asperity, Mark remarked, "After trying to impale your arm on it first. What the hell were you playing at, anyway?"

Steve's head jerked up, his eyes hot. "Trying to save your life before that maniac killed both of us first, dammit!" He stared at his father, shocked and speechless at his own temerity. After several attempts, he managed a ragged breath. "Dad — I —"

Mark shook his head, and beckoned. "Come here — I can't go there." His son complied wordlessly, still not sure his lungs were working properly. Mark reached for the good hand, careful not to disturb his own various tubes. "I knew what I was asking of you. And I trusted you to do it because I knew you could."

Blue eyes stared at him doubtfully as Steve made to speak. Finally he succeeded in assembling all the moving parts properly. "How?"

There was love and pride in his father's eyes and voice. "Because, despite everything that life throws at us, and despite your — bullheadedness," a twinkle in the eyes as well at that point — "I know, more surely than I've ever known anything, that, no matter what, you will always do what's right. And that gave me the strength to ask you to do it."

Steve stared at him, a confusion of emotions shuddering through him, from anger to grief to panic to bewilderment, and finally shook his head. "Dad — you know I love you. But you're going to make me gray before my time."

The blue eyes had regained their old impish gleam. "There's always Grecian Formula. Just don't do the blond thing again, okay?"

Having safely stowed Jesse back in his bed, Amanda paused outside the Sloans' room, smiling as she heard the sound of familiar laughter and bickering. Back to normal by the sounds of it, and all was right with the world.


End file.
